


We Danced All Night As The Kingdom Stared

by akingdomofunicorns



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Multi, PWP, Sexual Content, Threesome - F/F/M, we'll pretend Quentyn is still alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akingdomofunicorns/pseuds/akingdomofunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the worst kept secret in the Seven Kingdoms, if it is a secret at all. But not even the Royal Family has this much fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Danced All Night As The Kingdom Stared

It’s the worst kept secret in the Seven Kingdoms, if it is a secret at all. The situation they’ve found themselves in is bizarre at most, and sometimes Sansa thinks she’s in a dream where horses have sweet voices and black clouds pass over their heads without rain reaching them. Quentyn is that sweet. They’ve been married for almost two years, now, and she’s given him a daughter already, a Princess of Dorne, heir to Sunspear; Raena is the sweetest babe, with her sunkissed, olive skin and dark, reddish curls and her dark, dark eyes. She looks like Quentyn and has his quiet way of looking around; that’s why she’s learned to love him so, because he has given her sweet Raena and has taught her all the ways they can whisper words of love against each other’s skin.

That doesn’t explain their situation, though. As much as she loves him (and she does, almost as much as her lady mother loved her father), she can’t explain what’s going on.

She reaches her private chambers, the ones that overlook the pool with the pink blossoms that float on the water and the tallest blood orange tree by her window, and she can hear soft singing from inside. At the sound of the door opening, the singing stops and Sansa smiles to herself at the sight of Margaery sitting on her bed, brushing her hair away from her face with her favourite brush, a wedding present from Lady Ellaria.

“It has taken you long to put Raena to bed, tonight.”

“She wanted to sleep with Elia’s girl again, they had to convince me to let her.”

“Jordyna is a sweet girl and Elia takes good care of them. They are what, three halls away?”

“You will understand soon enough. Where’s Quent? I was hoping he’d be here already.”

Margaery smiles and puts the brush away. Before she has time to rise from the bed, Sansa takes a seat beside her and puts her hands on her waist, keeping her where she is.

“We may start without him,” Margaery says as she puts her hands on Sansa’s cheeks, “I don’t think he’ll mind.”

Margaery’s lips are soft against her own, soft and sweet, like the blood oranges she has taken to eating at all hours, no matter the time or the place, no matter the company. The once queen doesn’t seem to care for property and power anymore, though Sansa knows her to be a schemer at heart and she is not naïve enough as not to suspect that this arrangement was what she wanted from the beginning to keep herself alive and well —but Marg is tired of crowns and curses the very existence of the Iron Throne. Sansa likes her better that way, when she keeps her schemes to hiding their escapades or when she plays matchmaker to the Sand Snakes.

“You smell sweet, Sansa. Have you eaten apples?”

“I have,” she says, trailing her lips against her jaw and Marg tilts her head to the side just as she always does. Her skin’s tanned and salty with sweat, full of dark freckles all around, on the bridge of her nose and on her cleavage and on the back of her neck where the sun kisses her skin when she wears her hair up, and Sansa loves to lick them with the flat of her tongue just as she licks the moisture from between her legs and the beads of sweat that trickle down her back leisurely.

She catches her earlobe between her lips, careful with her teeth to avoid hurting her, and sucks gently, playing with the flesh in the best way she knows. Margaery’s moan catches in her throat and then comes out soft and low and tickles her skin where her breath caresses her. Sansa then kisses her down her neck, stoping just over her collarbone to dip her tongue in the hole and suck at the skin underneath.

“Allow me to undress you, my lady,” Sansa says and Margaery tips her head backwards and arches her back in invitation for Sansa to pay attention to the top of her breasts, barely covered by the thin shift she’s wearing.

The buttons on her shift are perfect pearls, plucked from the deepest part of the sea that surrounds Dorne, caught by the Yellow Mermaids, dornish women that swim like mermaids and know the secrets that one may find under water. Sansa kisses each button before opening them and Margaery’s breath hits the crown of her head in hot puffs of air. Once her breasts are bare, Sansa pushes the fabric open with the tips of her fingers, brushing against the soft skin of her shoulders, until it falls down her back and pools at her waist. The peaks of her breasts are a pale pink that seems to darken as goosebumps rise all over them and Sansa takes one in her mouth and suckles on it hard, grazing her teeth against it just a little. Margaery squirms and clenches her thighs together as she holds back a high-pitched moan and then her hands move towards Sansa’s back, where she clutches at the fabric of her dress with trembling fingers.

“Oh.”

“Lie down, Margy.”

Sansa guides her towards the pillows on the bed and helps her settle down before grabbing at her breasts with both her hands. They feel soft and heavy and warm and she caresses and squeezes, fills her hands with them and rolls the nipples with her thumbs like Marg has done to her a thousand times before. She knows her body like the back of her hand, as well as she knows her own or Quentyn’s, and she clutches her breasts in her hands and tugs on them hard enough to make her arch her back of the bed and moan her name between clenched teeth.

She licks a wet strip up the valley between both breasts, making sure to get all the way to her neck again, and Margaery opens her legs apart to make space for her. It’s easy to get her out of the shift, and she sees she’s not wearing smallclothes underneath. The need in her belly burns bright and heavy and she leaves the white stockings on, for Marg looks even better completely naked but for the silk covering her legs up to her thighs.

“I want to spend the rest of my life tasting your skin, Marg.”

“You may do whatever you wish, _Princess_ Sansa.”

“I will,” she says, smiling a wicked smile she’s learned from Margaery herself.

“We will,” Quentyn’s voice startles them both and they turn towards his smiling form, resting against the archway that separates Sansa’s bedroom from her solar; “Are you enjoying yourselves?”

“Very much so. Come join us, my husband,” Sansa says, accommodating herself between Margaery’s legs on all fours.

“Come pleasure your wife as she feasts on me,” Margaery adds, and Sansa blushes scarlet despite having done just that a thousand times already.

“I think I will stay here and watch for the time being, enjoy your beauty from afar.”

“Oh, the Prince wants to stare at us, now does he. Your husband is a wicked man, Sansa.”

“Terribly wicked, I say.”

“But let him stare, he won’t be the first one. People love to talk about us.”

“Rightly so,” Quentyn says as he takes a seat.

Margaery smirks and trips Sansa to make her fall on the bed.

“Let’s get you out of this pretty dress, shall we, sweetling? Get you naked for our prince, Princess.”

Sansa giggles as Margaery’s hands tug on the laces of her bodice until they come undone. Margaery is impatient, she gives and takes with urgency, she bites and laughs and moans, she scratches and claws. Sansa is sweeter, she giggles and kisses and suckles, she licks and hums. But she shouts, and when Marg licks a strip down her cunt once she is completely bare, her name rolls off her lips loud enough to make Margaery stop and appreciate the state in which she’s in. Sansa is a vision; her red hair is all over the place, bathing the pillows and shining crimson and golden with the candlelights; her skin is peppered with freckles, every inch of her once pale skin now permanentely covered in the brown and orange dots, and flushed, she is flushed from head to toe, completely naked. She is covered in jewelry, though, golden necklaces that fall between her breasts, golden rings on her fingers and her hair and even one on her nose, like the ones Obarra and Nym sometimes wear, a present from Quentyn when she told him she was carrying sweet, little Raena in her belly.

Margaery makes to dip her tongue between her folds, but Sansa stops her and shakes her head.

“I was going to do that first, remember? I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“It’s not your husband who is wicked,” Marg says as she crawls the length of Sansa’s body on all fours, her breasts swaying and her hips thrusting up in the air, “you are seven times worse, my love. But you cannot eat me up if you will not say it.”

Margaery’s hands find Sansa’s waist and she clutches at the skin with hungry fingers. _Leave a mark, I want to paint my fingers upon her skin_ , she thinks, and she moves her hips so her swollen clit rubs against one of Sansa’s legs. “Say it for me?”

“For us, Sansa,” Quentyn says, rising from his chair to undress properly, “for Margaery and I. Say it, sweetling.”

“I want to feast on your cunt,” Sansa murmurs, and Margaery laughs as she lays down on the featherbed, her legs spread apart and her pink folds glistening and wet.

Blushing, Sansa lowers herself to her belly and puts her hands on Margaery’s hips, her fingers holding her down. Slowly, very slowly, as to drive her mad with want and need and lust, Sansa showers her inner thighs with butterfly kisses, her lips barely brushing the goosebumps that have covered Marg’s skin, her eyelashes tickling her. When she gets to the creases of her thighs, right there where the skin is darker and rougher, where the thigh meats her bottom and her cunt, she catches a patch with her teeth and sucks, sucks hard with lips and teeth and tongue until Marg is writhing underneath her, until she moans and whines and claws at her shoulders with her nails, until she knows it hurts and there’ll be a purple bruise there at the end of the night.

“I love you,” Sansa says and then gathers the juice that seeps out of Margaery’s opening with her tongue.

She can feel Quentyn behind her, the warmth of his body so close to her. He smells like silks and horses and the sun, he smells of ink and paper, too. His big hands caress her naked bottom and his fingers come running down the curve of her ass to the folds that are drenched from all the attention she’s been paying to Margaery. He dips his fingers inside her easily and presses his hips to where his hand is pleasuring her and she can feel the curve of his manhood, of his _cock_ , oh gods.

“Is this right, sweetling? Am I making you feel good?”

“Yes,” Sansa moans and the sound vibrates against Margaery’s clit and shots through her body, the sensation trembling inside her veins and travelling all the way to her toes.

“And you, Tyrell? Is my sweet, little wife making you feel good?”

Margaery tightens her fingers on Sansa’s hair, the red tresses twisting and tangling in her fingers and falling on the bed in a mass of curls. Sansa clenches her thighs at Quentyn’s words, trapping his hand against her, and she laps at Marg’s desire roughly, giving her what she knows she wants, what she knows she needs.

Margaery is at her end, she’s trembling and gasping and whining and she won’t last much. “I want to taste you,” Sansa says as she opens her legs just enough for Quentyn to enter her in one fast stroke even though she’s dying to press her thighs together and rub, rub, rub until this ends, until the string inside her stops streching and then finally snaps, as it’s bound to do.

“Please, please, please, please,” Margaery chants and Sansa wants to taste her and make her come undone, watch her as her body arches away from the bed and her lips sing an hymn with her name on it.

She catches Margaery’s clit with her lips and sucks, flattening her tongue against it and Marg’s hands leave her hair to grip at the bedsheets, one of her nails catching on a loose thread. Sansa releases her clit long enough to watch as she dips her fingers inside Margaery’s cunt, as it clenches around her when she pulls them out and inserts them again, and then she’s spelling her own name and Margaery’s and Quentyn’s on that bundle of flesh that’s swollen and pulsing and hot and Margaery growls her name as her thighs tremble and she thrashes on the bed, seeking for the end of her release, chasing for it until it’s gone and done.

Quentyn’s hand comes around her to help her ride her pleasure, the callouses of his fingers sliding against her slicker flesh, and his hips are slamming into her at just the right angle. His other hand grasps her breast, her creamy flesh filling the space between his fingers and she can feel his breath against her neck. Her lips seek his and his tongue laps at the juices that remain, seeking the sweet, tangy liquid of Margaery’s desire in every crevice of her mouth.

“Just so, Sansa,” Quentyn says panting, and the feel of her name on his mouth has her trembling and grasping at his hair, her arms reaching behind her desperatly and her fingers twisting in his dark locks.

Marg crawls to her knees and lowers her head to the bed. With gentle fingers she parts Sansa’s legs and curls her mouth against her clit, her tongue crashing with Quentyn’s fingers. She can barely hold herself upright when Quentyn growls loudly and his hips snap against hers, and he’s hitting that spot, that rough patch of skin inside her that he finds every time, and she can’t hold back anymore. She clenches around him, her body trembling all over, and Quentyn stills inside her as his seed spills warm and fast.

Margaery grabs her by the hips before she can fall forwards and takes her with her when she settles down against the pillows. Sansa curls up against Margaery’s side, her whole body pressing against hers, while Quentyn remains on his knees, breathing hard as he looks at them.

“I don’t think your sister has half the fun we have, my prince,” Margaery says, and Sansa can’t hold back her laughter, even if she feels too tired for such efforts as laughing.

“Yes,” Sansa manages to say inbetween giggles, “King Aegon seems so stern, doesn’t he? But Queen Daenerys looks like she’d enjoy it —perhaps Arianne could convince her.”

“Why don’t we stop speaking of my sister in such a state as we are? Let’s talk about other things.”

“I know what I want to talk about,” Sansa says as she caresses Margaery’s belly with her fingertips; “I reckon it will be another girl. We shall name her Miara. Or Leania. We shall give you a dozen of girls to have you worrying about love, Quent. Perhaps one of them will end like us. Raena, most likely.”

“Speak not of such awful things, Sansa. No, no, please lets go back to my sister and her husband and wife.”

“I’d rather sleep,” Margaery says, her head resting near Sansa’s.

“Come sleep with us, Quent.”

Quentyn crawls on Sansa’s other side and kisses her between her shoulder blades.

“I reckon it will be a girl, too” he murmurs once Margaery has fallen asleep, “and I fear she will be as terrible as her mothers, what with Marg’s womb and my seed.”

“Do not worry, love, I shall teach her caution —Miara will be a sweet girl, sweeter than Raena, even. More like myself had I not met you both.”

“Then I shall sleep a little better, if I have only Raena to worry about.”

“No, not only Raena. We will give you a dozen daughters and some sons, too. But more daughters, to atone for your sins.”

“And what are my sins?”

Sansa arches an eyebrow and smiles sweetly at him.

“Well, you corrupted me, of course. And now everyone speaks of the Princess Sansa sharing her bed with her husband and a paramour, the _Lady_ Margaery, besides.”

“A true dornish princess, I’ve made you. My uncle would be proud.”

“I’ll wake you both up to show you the Northern ways. True savages, we are.”

“Oh, I already know, sweetling, you’ve shown me a thousand times. I’ve had to hide marks for days.”

_Let them talk_ , Sansa thinks as Quentyn nuzzles her neck, _let them talk that we’ll keep dancing._


End file.
